


Lesson

by kuwdora



Category: Equilibrium, Stargate Atlantis
Genre: Angst, F/M, First Time, Porn Battle
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-01-28
Updated: 2011-01-28
Packaged: 2017-10-15 04:43:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,141
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/157150
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kuwdora/pseuds/kuwdora
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>John Preston had everything and nothing in common with John Sheppard. The man was an enigma wrapped up in a deceptive but disarming sense of humor he didn’t quite understand, yet at times he could be even more closed off than Preston himself. </i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Lesson

**Author's Note:**

> Written on the fly for the Porn Battle XI crossover prompt of _guitar_ for John Preston and John Sheppard.

John Preston had everything and nothing in common with John Sheppard. The man was an enigma wrapped up in a deceptive but disarming sense of humor he didn’t quite understand, yet at times he could be even more closed off than Preston himself.

John Sheppard had been the Lantean Council’s right-hand man in the neighboring city-state of Pegasus. Those who were born with a certain genetic marker had been selected and trained as the scientists and military personnel to oversee the development and administration of their Prozium formula while enacting the ruling council’s other wishes. Sheppard’s biology had given him the initial privilege of joining Companion Calvary, the best of the best, but Sheppard had earned his achievements with his intellect and ascended the ranks until he became the city’s top Syntagamatarch. He’d faithfully maintained the state, just as Preston did, until an Athosian woman had recognized the seeds of doubt in his demeanor, much like his wife and Mary had done for him.

Their revolution had been less swift than Libria’s and by the time Sheppard and his team had mounted their main attack, the Lantean Council was ready for them. The Council had all but eradicated their home-grown resistance, in the blink of an eye. It was pure luck that Sheppard had been away on reconnisance but he had no choice but flee. Since the start of Libria’s revolution, the borders were relatively easy to cross now if one knew where the right people were stationed. Sheppard had passed enough of their tests and became a member of their resistance.

Sheppard had surprised them all. He had a deceptive sort of humor that was uncommon and particularly disarming yet he was an uncanny tactician whom they owed a debt of gratitude. The Underground had destroyed a number of the Prozium factories, but the production had merely shifted to new locations that they could not. It was Sheppard who suggested they attack the six main laboratories that were known for synthesizing the key elements in the Prozium.

Preston sat with his back against the wall, knees drawn together and Sheppard was on the edge of the bed, fingers jumping up and down the strings with such ease as if came as naturally as breathing. Preston ran his hand over Annika, the grey malamute that had been christened princess of the domicile as he watched. At his last inquiry, Sheppard previously told him in an easy drawl, _practice makes perfect_ but Preston hadn’t a clue when he had time to become so… efficient at playing such an antiquated instrument. Which is why he often retired to Sheppard’s quarters after the evening meal, so he could take it all in. Fingers danced along the neck of the guitar without stumbling, each pluck of his other hand adding to the mellow song in intuitive ways and Preston mimicked the motion as he petted Annika who slid her head onto his lap and huffed with contentment.

One of the other fighters had a stash of old rock and roll albums by those who had called themselves The Beatles and AC/DC amongst many others. Preston had spent days listening to the albums, trying to figure out if he liked what he heard but what Sheppard played was different. He knew immediately that he liked it. The music was quiet and easygoing and washed over Preston like a tide that he wanted to take him back out to sea. There were those in the Underground who played musical instruments of sorts and had organized a small performance involving a clarinet and something called an alto saxophone, but the guitar had an entirely new personality that engaged Preston in ways that he could barely articulate. He only knew he liked it.

“Any requests?” Sheppard asked, looking at Preston. The expectation made him feel small. Despite his knowledge of a handful of songs, he wasn’t sure if Sheppard knew of them or how they would sound without the accompaniment. Preston looked down at Annika to stall for time and he scratched behind her ears. In his peripherial vision Sheppard’s hand slid up and down the neck, and Preston found himself drawn to the hypnotic movements of Sheppard’s hands. He didn’t want Sheppard to stop but he didn’t know how to encourage him further.

Sheppard’s watchful gaze didn’t falter when Preston didn’t respond. Preston stretched his legs in front of him and looked thoughtfully at the window.

Preston cleared his voice. “Play something that reminds you of the rain,” he said.

Sheppard’s fingers continued at their languorous pace up and down the neck of the instrument as he considered Preston’s words. He felt embarrassed, wondering if he’d spouted nonsense. Abstraction was something Preston had learned about in art and literature that the professors had begun to teach but he couldn’t seem to apply the same thinking to music. He hoped that whatever he meant, Sheppard would understand.

The notes picked up in speed, ducking and weaving in a more upbeat way than Preston would have associated. He was happy to listen to him go all night but after several songs Sheppard stopped.

“C’mere,” Shepaprd said and lifted the guitar off and motioned him to the bed. Preston pushed himself up the wall and with some reluctance sat down beside him. Sheppard slung the guitar around his neck and settled the guitar on his thigh and took his hand and slid it into place for him.

“Keep your thumb here on the neck so you can keep the guitar steady,” he said.

Sheppard explained the notes with letter designations—E, A, D, G, B, E— in addition to chords and frets but they were all things that meant nothing to Preston. He plucked and strummed nonetheless, exploring the different tactile sensations against the pads of his fingers but failing to reproduce anything that sounded like music.

“This isn’t working,” Preston said. He couldn’t manage any of the chords, the angle he had to keep his wrists in was painful but Sheppard shrugged it off, letting him pick aimlessly at the strings and watched him fumble. Annika seemed bored without someone petting her head.

“You know what I think might help,” Sheppard said and slid his finger beneath the shoulder strap to adjust it against his neck, fingers tracing his collar as he lengthened it. Preston shifted the guitar in his lap and tightened his grip on the neck of the guitar. He glanced at Sheppard, curious and scared of the way his heart-rate increased. It was sudden, potent and he became hyper-aware Sheppard’s proximity, of the pressure behind his touch, and he inexplicably knew there was something more embedded in the pretense. Shepaprd’s fingers lingered for a moment longer and when he ran his hand down his back, Preston let out a breath he didn’t know he was holding.


End file.
